


Nuestro Capitán

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Dom/sub Undertones, Euro 2016, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7414621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramos and Piqué get good at helping each other out during a tough Euro campaign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuestro Capitán

**Author's Note:**

> A (sort of, imperfect) fill for footballkink @ dreamwidth. Inspired by [this prompt post](https://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=130227#cmt130227).

It doesn’t feel like it did before.

He loves playing in the center, not confined to the right, the last line of defense before De Gea. Simple job, don’t go forward except for set pieces. Anticipate. Demand. Control. He’s strong enough to take down any attacker in the game if he gets beaten for skill or (and this is less often) for pace. And he will and he has and he does. Piqué’s pretty good at his job too, which makes things easier.

But there’s no Xabi in midfield, with his strong, no-nonsense tackles and unshakeable confidence. Iniesta is half of himself without Xavi. And they don’t have Fer to seize on the half-chances, because when Fer is on, he’s _really_ on, unstoppable. Sergio’d be stupid not to be worried. And he’s not stupid – not about football, anyway.

So it’s a relief when they beat Czech thanks to (of all people) Piqué, and a relief when they beat little Turkey, clean sheets the greatest pleasure of all. And it’s a rude fucking awakening when the Croatians slip the ball past Juanfran, past Piqué, past Busi, and _yes_ , past him, never thought they would get past so many of his giant teammates, and he’s out of position, he’s beaten, and he looks like an _idiot_ , like a rookie again, not _un capitán_ , not the image he’s created for himself after all these years, not that.

Oh, and then he misses the penalty. 

Piqué hugs him hard after the final whistle. Harder than he’d like, knocks the wind out of him. Says something in his ear that’s somehow both too loud and incomprehensible and then he’s gone. The cameras are watching, so he smiles. He rubs shoulders with Modric and Perisic, other people, he loses track, mind elsewhere.

He climbs onto the team bus. Cesc is sulking, Iniesta has his earphones in, and Iker is – well, things are different with Iker now. It’s hard to look at anyone. But then, almost accidentally, he makes eye contact with Piqué at the back of the bus. 

Piqué high fives him, gestures to the seat beside him. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s in disappointed post match mode, where he can only speak in hushed tones. “Keeper was miles off his line…”

“I should’ve scored it,” Sergio says, harsher than he means to.

Piqué looks at him for a long time. Sergio feels an ache in the back of this throat but doesn’t look away. Finally, Piqué smiles, even laughs a little. “Well, yeah,” he says. “You should’ve.”

Sergio nods – he needed Piqué to say that. He almost feels outside of his body. He knows, he _knows_ , there are other teams that are lucky just to get to the round of 16, that would have happily sat back and defended. He’s glad he’s not on that kind of team. He’s never been that kind of player – that’s how he got to where he is.

“ _Yo soy español, español, español_ ,” a couple of people sing from the front of the bus, before breaking abruptly into giggles.

Piqué rolls his eyes in Sergio’s direction. Sergio smiles (finally) and lies down so that his head is resting on Piqué’s bony shoulder. 

“I could’ve gotten my head on that cross,” Piqué says, and Sergio knows exactly what moment he’s talking about. “Could’ve jumped higher.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sergio says, and they both giggle.

“How’s Cesc?” Sergio finds himself asking.

Piqué shrugs, bouncing Sergio’s head accidentally. “Oops.” Sergio settles back in, almost into his chest. “He’s – you know,” Piqué says. “He’s like you.” 

Sergio nods almost imperceptibly. His eyelids feel heavy. “Take it easy, Sese,” he thinks he hears Piqué say before he nods off completely. 

***

There’s a lot of downtime. They get back to base camp late that night, and Del Bosque gives them strict instructions to have a long lie-in the next morning followed by a relaxing day off. Lots of stretching, maybe a sauna, a short run if you feel it would help, but mostly just take it easy on your muscles. No alcohol, but “a glass of wine with dinner shouldn’t be a problem.” Sergio loves Del Bosque.

He gets the text as soon as he gets back to his room.

_want to play fifa? can’t sleep_

_From: Piqué_

And Sergio knows that’s a lie because Piqué is the sleepiest person he’s ever met.

In fact, when Piqué answers the door Sergio’s pretty sure he’d fallen asleep waiting for him. His hair is messed up and his eyes are a little red. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and that’s about it.

“What, did I wake you up?” Sergio says.

“Fuck off.”

“I won’t,” says Sergio, pushing past him to get in, brushing against him more than is strictly necessary. “Oof, this room is nicer than mine.”

Piqué yawns, stretching. “Yeah?”

Sergio looks out the window. “ _And_ the view’s better.”

“Hmm,” Piqué says, crawling onto the bed. Sergio glances at him and he’s trying valiantly to sit up against the pillows.

“Looks comfortable.”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sergio chuckles, walking over. “So you weren’t asleep.”

“Nope.”

“You were playing FIFA?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Against the computer?”

“Yeah. I got the hotel Xbox set up and everything.”

“Wow,” Sergio says, drawing it out, crawling onto the bed too. He stretches like a cat, staring up at the other man. Piqué is smiling, but he somehow lacks his usual confidence. “Turned it off then?”

“Yeah. You want to play?” Piqué says, but Sergio knows that’s not he wants.

Sergio tilts his head like _maybe_. And then, with a boldness he wasn’t quite sure he had, he grips Piqué’s leg through the covers. “I think you’re too sleepy, though.”

Piqué shifts, chuckling. “I’m not.”

“Promise?” Sergio moves upward, ever so slightly, onto his kneecap. Piqué pretends not to notice, but the corners of his mouth flick upward.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. I’m not too tired. To play FIFA,” he adds belatedly. Purposely. _Dog._

Sergio exhales. “Well, _I_ am,” he sighs, bounding up and hitting the light on that side of the bed, snuggling under the covers.

Piqué makes a wounded noise.

“Turn your light off, Geri.”

“What, you’re sleeping here now?” grumbles Piqué, but he does as he’s told and gets under the covers.

“You don’t mind, do you?” says Sergio, brushing up against Piqué’s side.

Piqué growls a little in his throat and pulls the other man close, rougher than he’s ever been. “Wait wait wait wait wait,” says Sergio, pulling away and moving to the edge of the bed. In the dark, he slides off his shirt and crawls back to Piqué’s arms, nudging his ass right back into Piqué’s crotch. He makes another sound but grips Sergio almost as tight as before, around his middle, thumbing his belly absently. Sergio grins. “’Night.”

***

Training is good, somehow, but that's always true. Piqué can handle Morata and Nolito, and so can Sergio, but, they figure, other center backs won’t be able to. Or not as well, anyway. Or not as many times.

Or, they have to think that. In order to have a chance.

“Why’s Villa have to be so fucking _old_?” he thinks he hears Piqué mutter as they walk back to the locker room from training.

“What did you say?” Sergio nudges him with his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Piqué says instinctively, but when he sees it’s Sergio, he lets himself grin.

Sergio strides in front of him, shaking his head, but he’s smiling too. Turns around and puts his finger to his lips. “Shh!”

Piqué cracks up. “ _Vamos_ , Sese…”

It’s this kind of understanding, and sometimes, when he looks over accidentally, he catches a real ache in Piqué’s eyes. He knows that his don’t look too different. He thinks about the commentators’ curse, the streak of clean sheets they’d had for competitive matches before the Croatia game. They’re doing their job, aren’t they? Piqué more than his job.

He was the first to Piqué after he scored, jumped on his back and an arm around his neck, pressed tightly, held him there, even after the others had arrived to thank him, to praise him, for doing his job at both ends, our savior, the first match, the first step, no more Villa or Xavi or Xabi or Puyi, but we’re still the golden generation, aren’t we? Aren’t we? Get the fuck up, get on your feet, France, _somos nosotros!_

And maybe it’s be _cause_ he misses them all, because he aches for them in ways he’s not sure he wants to explain, that he holds Piqué so tight. It doesn’t feel like it did before, four years ago, when the world was at their feet and everything Fer and Da touched went in the back of the net, when commanding, powerful, moody, sullen Iker could read the minds of top-level goalscorers.

Commanding. Powerful. Sergio’s toes curl if he thinks about Iker too much, and now the lowered eyes, the sad smiles, he smiles more now than he ever has before somehow, the balls that creep past him in training, his posture on the bench –

But Piqué is still there. Piqué looks at him like he’s meant to. Like he’s grateful and tired and happy and he understands. And they say things to each other, but they also sometimes don’t say things to each other. Their constant, teasing touches that the others certainly notice, have to notice, are (almost) enough.

So Sergio doesn’t sleep with him right after that match. He’s not sure why, it’s not like him, but when he woke up to Piqué sprawled on his back with an arm over his face, hard in his sweats, he didn’t regret it. Just grinned to himself at having beaten Piqué awake and hopped up, out the door soundlessly. 

***

In the back of his mind, Sergio somehow thought Piqué would be weird about it. That he would treat him differently, or mistime his passes on the pitch, or give him shit and pretend it was for something else. But instead, Piqué is more jovial, laughs more often, teases and prods and pokes Sergio even as the Italy match approaches and the team collectively feels their nerves build. (Defending champions? Nerves?)

On match day, he’s worse than ever. He plops down next to Sergio on the bus, singing some Catalan song Sergio doesn’t know, and they’re really too big for the seat, couldn’t avoid each other’s touch if they wanted to. On the short ride, Piqué talks his ear off. How he slept last night, how he thought the hotel breakfast was, but mostly the quirks and habits of the Italian strikers. Stuff they’ve been discussing with Del Bosque for days.

Sergio spreads his knees, trying to dictate space in the small area, pressed between the window and Piqué’s bigger frame. Desperate for some sense of control. Never known himself to be like this. Piqué, of course, is oblivious, turning to face Sergio more:

“Pelle’s big, but he’s slow off the mark. We’ve got to close him down quickly and we can’t let him run with the ball…”

And Sergio knows he’s just nervous, afraid of somehow not doing everything he possibly can, of not jumping high enough or making a bad clearance—

“You’re listening, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Pelle’s slow off the mark.”

“Right, but he’s fast once he gets going, we can’t get beaten by a through ball…”

And in the end, it’s as simple as a set piece, the ball goes right to De Gea, but he parries it weakly and they don’t jump on it fast enough, _Piqué_ doesn’t jump on it fast enough. It’s buried in the net by Chiellini and they never manage to recover.

He doesn’t know where Cesc is on the pitch, or Silva, or fucking Nolito, he’s not an attacker, he never has been. He is able to separate it – at least sometimes, it’s not his job, and he feels Piqué beside him, can sense he is feeling the same way. Of course, Piqué’d love to score another goal today, but it’d be a fucking miracle, and he can feel the big man’s desperation grow as the minutes drag on.

And then it happens – he gets beat, hands behind his back, can feel already that he didn’t think enough of this attack. And he gets a foot on it, those quick feet, but it’s not enough, he’s unlucky with the deflection, and BANG – they’re out of the Euro Cup. Two minutes left in extra time and it’s 2-0 to Italy. No coming back now.

He can’t see straight for the next few seconds. Maybe it’s shock. But when he calms down, he finds himself locking eyes with Piqué. It’s almost a relief when the whistle finally blows. 

***

Later, when he looks back on it, it will all be a blur. But in the moment, in that aching, final moment, it lasts forever. He beats his chest with his fist until the lump in his throat is gone, he gestures to the Spanish fans, thanking them with all of his heart. He pulls the armband so it snaps hard against his bicep, as if it’s a tic, as if it’s almost by accident, but he knows he needs to feel that sting, like a pinch in a dream to bring him back to the physical world. He doesn’t want to ever feel like this again.

He seeks Piqué out this time, hugging him hard, too hard. Piqué’s body just gives. Piqué puts his head on Sergio’s shoulder and he’s sure he leaves moisture there. They stay there for a long time, too long, they lose track of time. Finally someone (Morata? he won’t remember) joins them in a hug, and they separate, avoiding eye contact as they pull away.

***

For all the strictness of their training regime, the rules fall apart completely after a knockout. Some of them stay in France – make their way to Paris or Nice with their families for their suddenly lengthened holiday. Others head back home immediately to be with their families. Still others are bound for Amsterdam, or Bangkok, cities that promise the kind of fun they can definitely afford.

Sergio lays in his hotel room late that night, sipping wine from the bottle and thinking about nothing. The hotel phone rings.

“Hello?” he answers on the seventh ring.

“Hi,” is the breathless response. Quick recovery, clear of the throat. “Thought you might’ve left.”

“Geri?”

“Yeah, duh.”

“Sorry. It’s just—why’d you call me on the hotel line?”

He can almost hear Piqué shrug. “Thought it’d be more fun, I guess.”

“Was it?”

Piqué doesn’t answer for a second, then Sergio hears a giant slurp and realizes he’s drinking too. “I almost forgot your room number.”

“Aha. You need that. To call." 

“Yeah, you do. Turns out.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Hmm. I’m drink _ing_ ,” Piqué says.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey.”

Sergio shudders involuntarily. He’s glad Piqué isn’t there to see his reaction, but the other man laughs anyway at his lack of response, probably imagining him doing exactly that.

“What, are you not?”

“I’m drinking wine,” Sergio says.

“Of course. Actually, I’m a little sad it’s not sangria.”

Sergio laughs. “I, um—I’ve got a flight booked to Madrid next week.”

“Next week?”

Sighing, Sergio says, “Yeah, man. Well—when’s yours?”

“Didn’t book it. Figured…” And now Sergio can practically hear Piqué shrug.

Sergio bites his lip. “Want to come over?”

No response for several seconds. Sergio realizes he’s holding his breath. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Yeah?” Piqué’s teasing, but he’s also not, and Sergio hears a note of desperation in his voice. Like he’s having trouble restraining himself.

He could be sarcastic, and he’s aching to make a joke out of it, but instead he is flirty as you like: “Yeah, Geri. I really fucking want you to.” 

***

Sergio opens the door wearing just his shorts (his turn), and Piqué rakes his gaze up and down like he’s never done before, sending a buzz all over Sergio’s body. Piqué’s enjoying this opportunity. “Sese,” he says, voice choked with need, and for an odd moment, Sergio wonders if he calls him that because it sounds close to “Cesc.” But then he’s moving toward Sergio and closing the door behind him and Sergio forgets.

Their first kiss is desperate, urgent and longing, and Sergio doesn’t realize how much he’s being pushed back until his legs collide with the back of the bed and he falls, ungracefully, onto the mattress. Piqué just chuckles and slides his hand up Sergio’s shorts, kissing and pressing him against the mattress. Sergio bats his hands away impatiently and slides them off himself. He’s quick but he’s always the showman, as Piqué straightens up to watch. He pulls off his briefs slower, enjoying the feel of Piqué’s eyes on him, pupils huge, gaze clouded with lust. He’s half-hard already.

He backs up, moving toward the headboard and Piqué follows, still fully clothed. Piqué descends on him again, kissing him feverishly, pushing his hip down into the mattress, making him groan in the back of his throat. Sergio, not to be outdone, grips Piqué’s shirt and makes him slide it off. Piqué grins and grips Sergio’s cock, tugs and makes Sergio whimper and throw his head back.

Piqué stills on his dick for a second, hand still wrapped loosely around it, backs up and looks Sergio in the face. “You don’t blame me, right?”

“What?” Sergio pants, almost whines.

“For the goal. Chiellini. For the rebound.”

Sergio arches his back, trying to calm down. Piqué’s hand is distracting him. “Do you?” Piqué says. “I mean, _I_ blame me. But I don’t kn—”

“Geri,” says Sergio. “I don’t blame you.” And the truth is – this is his friend, they are in bed together, his cock’s in his hand, there is nothing else he could possibly say. But he realizes as soon as he says it that he’s not lying. “David… David should have made the save. David.”

Piqué smiles a little, kisses his beard, tightens his grip on Sergio’s cock. Nips and sucks on his neck until Sergio is moaning. He grazes it with his teeth and “Geri!” Sergio begs.

Piqué chuckles. “As long as you’re not saying David’s name,” he murmurs into his skin.

“Please, Geri,” Sergio says, completely overstimulated. He hasn’t been touched like this in a while, he can feel himself unraveling already. “I’m—I’m close,” he breathes, trembling, embarrassed and so, so hard.

“That’s okay,” Piqué grins, still buried in his neck.

“I want—” he pushes Piqué’s head, makes him look at his face again. “I want you to fuck me.”

Piqué doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips off his boxers and sweats in one fluid motion. As soon as his sweats are on the floor, he realizes his mistake and grabs lube from one of the pockets. Sergio laughs, the sound a little desperate. He turns around on all fours and Piqué makes a noise almost like an animal.

“Fuck, Sese…” Piqué breathes. “I’ve wanted this for so long…”

Sergio turns to look at Piqué. “What?” he asks, as innocently as possible despite his still-labored breathing.

“I’m gonna prepare you,” Piqué says through gritted teeth, “but you better not come while I’m doing it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sergio says unconvincingly.

Piqué’s got lube on his first two fingers now, and he inches the first one into Sergio’s asshole. Sergio groans – he’s not got the tightest asshole in the world, but Piqué’s fingers are _big_. He eases in and out until Sergio is gasping, keening, rutting back and forth for more. Piqué holds his ass still and slides the second finger in. Sergio bucks and whines, making these needy, desperate sounds too loud for the room.

“Shh, _amor_ ,” Piqué says, but he must like it because he slowly starts to scissor him and holds Sergio’s ass even tighter.

“You ready?” he says after a while, but it’s a bit unnecessary with the way Sergio’s reacting to his touch. Piqué takes his fingers out, and presses the head of his dick against Sergio’s asshole, and, done with teasing, immediately presses it in.

“Ahh, fuck, you’re so big,” Sergio whines. Piqué just chuckles and eases him into it, through the pain. He’s moving slowly, but still it hurts more than Sergio’s used to. “You’re so fucking—”

“Better?” he says, after a while, fucking him with long, deep, agonizing strokes. Sergio just nods in assent, the pain fading into unholy pleasure. Piqué seems to decide something. He grips Sergio’s hips tight, making the thrusts sharp, breathing heavily, groaning, taking what he wants.

Sergio feels weightless, being pressed into the mattress like this. His cock is so heavy, so full underneath him, and the friction of the mattress is getting him closer—

Piqué grips the base of his dick, _hard_. Sergio jerks as if he was pulled by a string. “Been wanting this for a while, huh?” he hisses in Sergio’s ear.

“Yes,” Sergio manages, eyes closed, control gone.

He smacks Sergio’s ass, taking a gamble. Sergio lets out a moan, face buried in the mattress, and he knows he guessed right. “You don’t get to come yet,” Piqué says. He pushes in deeper and Sergio screams in delight.

“When can I come?” pants Sergio as Piqué rides him even harder. He’s almost incoherent. Piqué’s hand isn’t on his dick anymore, and he knows he’s on the brink. “Please, Geri!”

“After I come,” Piqué says in his ear. “Or… after I hear you beg.”

Sergio can barely breathe. “God, please – Geri,” he whines, “Please let me come! Fuck me hard, please – I can take it, I need it, don’t – _yes_ , God, just like that, I need – your cock inside me, so fucking big – please, Geri, let me, I’m so fucking full of your cock—” and at this, Piqué grunts and Sergio feels a hand tighten around the bottom of his neck. Just a hint, just a tease, but it’s enough to send Sergio over the edge and he comes messily all over himself.

“God, Sese,” Piqué groans, on the verge himself now, pumping harder into Sergio’s abused hole. “Fuck – you’re so fucking good – ” and he spurts hard, into Sergio’s ass, landing on top of him heavily.

It’s a few minutes before either of them moves again, exhausted from the match and the effort and each other. Piqué pulls out, gentle as he normally is, and rolls off onto the mattress. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Sergio chuckles, still facedown, but turning his head to the side. Piqué sits up on one arm and gazes at Sergio, come leaking out of his ass and under his stomach. He looks a sight. “Fuck,” Piqué says again, collapsing dramatically back onto the mattress.

“That was – that was okay, right, Se?”

“What?” Sergio says, and then realizes. “Oh, fuck. Yeah, Geri.”

“Yeah, I guess you liked it,” Piqué says smacking Sergio's ass.

"Hey!"

Piqué chuckles and for a while they’re silent, coming down.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re here,” Piqué says. “Needed you.”

“Yeah, you did,” Sergio says, picking himself up and off the bed. Piqué laughs a little, pleased at the sight of him covered in come.

“You need help with that?” he asks, gesturing lazily to Sergio’s body.

Sergio shrugs coquettishly and wanders off to the shower. Piqué waits a minute, just for suspense, and then jumps out of bed to follow him.

“Geri?” Sergio says from the giant, lush hotel shower.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here too.”

Piqué ducks into the shower, avoiding knocking his head against the frame, and grabbing Sergio around the middle. “Well, thank God for that.”


End file.
